The classroom was nearly empty, the sun casting long shadows across the desks. Shoto Todoroki stepped inside quietly, his eyes scanning the room.

He had come back for his notebook—left behind in the rush of the day.

That’s when he saw them.

Slumped over their desk, breathing soft and steady, the faintest rise and fall of their back visible. A loose sheet of paper fluttered slightly in the breeze from the open window, a pen still clutched in their hand.

Todoroki paused in the doorway.

They looked… exhausted. Their shoulders slack, head resting against crossed arms. The tension usually carried in their posture seemed to have melted away.

For a long moment, he stood there, unsure.

Then, quietly, he stepped forward.

He reached for his notebook, the movement slow and careful, as if even the slightest sound might shatter the stillness.

But before he turned to leave, his eyes lingered again. The air was cooler now, and a faint breeze stirred the loose papers on their desk.

Without thinking, Todoroki slipped off his hoodie and draped it over their shoulders—careful, gentle. It hung awkwardly across their back, but it covered them all the same.

He watched for a beat longer. The peaceful sound of their breathing. The way the fabric shifted slightly with each breath.

Then, quietly, he turned and left the classroom—his steps soft, the door closing behind him with a barely audible click.